Zombie Fallout 9 (5 page)

“Please, everyone knows you're too stupid to die.”

“Shit, BT, don't hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”

The engine groaned and clanked. It began to sound like loose sneakers in a dryer. Soon, it quit. Ron's dashboard lit up in a variety of stunning colors. We found ourselves on a slowing roll.

“Start grabbing gear, BT. Ron?” My brother clamped his hands on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead. “Ron!” I smacked him on the shoulder. He responded with an erg or ugh. “
Ron!
” I shouted in his ear.

He turned slowly. “I almost got you killed; I almost got all of us killed.”

“Yeah, so?” I told him. “Grab your fucking gear. It's not the last time you're going to almost get us killed. You'd better get used to it.”

“Is he kidding?” Ron asked BT.

“Doubtful.” BT had begun cramming stuff into a small backpack. Well, I mean it was a big backpack to a normal human, but small in his hands.

“Why were they shooting at us?”

“Ron, man, we don't have time to question everything right now. Either those douche bags are going to be on us, or zombies that heard the party are going to come and try to crash. We don't have time to think, just do. That's our
modus operandi
now.”

“Latin, you're using Latin. I'm so proud of you.”

“We're losing him, Talbot.” BT was halfway out the door.

“Ron, man, listen to me. We need to get out of here and now.” I heard the sound of an approaching engine.

“Mike.” BT poked his head in.

“Not deaf, BT.”

“Want me to drag him out?”

“Ron, this is the new world. It sucks big, thick corn-encrusted shit through a Silly Straw.”

“Really, man?” BT chimed in.

“This is what we have to deal with. I'm not an expert. I'm not, but I do have experience, and you need to listen to me.”

I got a strangled “ung.” Even if my brother wasn't in the process of losing it, he still had the unenviable task of listening to someone's advice, someone he used to torture mercilessly when we were younger. I would always be his little brother and therefore would never possibly “know” more than him. It was a huge bias that he was going to need to overcome, and pretty damn fast, if the sound of the oncoming car was any indication.

“No time. I already got one crazy Talbot. Can't deal with another.” BT came around to the driver's door, opened it, and pulled Ron out easier than a toddler from a car seat. He had him all the way to the road edge before Ron finally told him he could walk on his own. I grabbed what I could and joined them. We'd just hit the tree line by the time the car came up over a hill and into view. The throaty engine was at full throttle.

“Get down.” Superfluous words. BT knew better and he dragged Ron down with him.

“What if they want to help?” Ron asked.

“Aw he's just like a little, itty baby. Ain't know no better.” BT smiled like a proud parent.

“That a fucking rocket launcher?” I asked with alarm. “Motherfucker.” We all buried our heads in our arms, thinking that this would somehow protect us should a rocket-propelled grenade make its way toward us. It wouldn't, but luckily they were aiming for the truck. The car may have slowed, tough to tell. Next thing I heard was the
whoosh
of a rocket, the screeching of tires seeking purchase, then the concussive blast of an explosion that rippled past us along with a variety of truck parts. Our eight-cylinder, six-hundred-pound engine came to an earth-shaking landing not more than ten feet from our location.

“Holy fuck,” I said, pivoting my head so I could see through my now splayed fingers. I stood up. What was left of Ron's truck was a burning, smoking hulking mess of debris. “Well, I can honestly say I've never quite done that to one of your cars.”

“Just another day in the life of Michael Talbot.” BT was now standing next to me as we watched what was left of the truck burn. “That's going to bring every zombie from the state here.”

“I'm sure that's why they did it.” I turned to retrieve my brother, happy to see he was slowly getting up.

“Why, Mike? Why would they do that?”

“Wanted our stuff, I imagine.”

“And they'd kill us for it?”

“Sure, who's going to tell them differently?”

“Morals maybe?”

“Those are in short supply. Anybody who was loose with them when civilization was here has completely let the expiration date lapse without picking up new options to continue.”

“How can you be so cavalier?”

“Do I look like I'm having a good time, Ron? Those fuckers just tried to kill us for a truck, a few guns, and two days' worth of food.”

“Umm, Mike, when you ask somebody the rhetorical question, ‘Do you think I'm having fun?'” BT mimicked my voice for that last part, though his was much deeper. “Then maybe you shouldn't be smiling. It makes you look duplicitous.”

“He's right, you have this weird lopsided smile, like when you were tattling on one of us when we were younger.”

“I never tattled. Fuck you both, we need to go.”

“What? We just keep going? They shot a fucking rocket at us.”

“Not sure what else you would have us do, Ron. If we packed it in every time someone shot at us, I would have laid down and died that time in Korea.”

“That far back?”

“That far back.”

“You never said anything.”

“I killed a man. I never wanted to talk about it again.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It was me or him. More than likely, he'd be dead now anyway.”

Ron looked at me strangely, like maybe he was willing to understand me a little more. That could be good or bad. Or perhaps, he could finally see where I was coming from. I had experiences he did not, and he would now need to lean on me for my expertise. I can't imagine it sat particularly well with him. Better that than dead, though.

“Zombies.” BT said flatly, pointing to a spot the way that we'd come. They were a long way off, but they were running.

“Into the woods.”

“We're not going to kill them?”

I peeked back. “Nope, too many, and they're just like potato chips.”

“What?”

“It's your brother's way of saying the more you kill, the more will come.”

“We really have been together too long,” I said to the big man.

“Yeah, well, when this shit is all over, I'm leaving. Going to find a nice peaceful place, maybe in California or some shit. Gotta get away from all this. Start over maybe.”

It pained me to think of BT leaving at some point. I understood the reasons why he'd want to, that's for sure. Well, it was nothing to worry about at this point. It was a good, long while away. The woods weren't too thick; only had to travel a couple of hundred yards through them until we found ourselves in a neighborhood. The greenery had been more of a noise buffer for the residents in this area than anything else. There were cars parked along the road. Most were locked up. A couple were open but had no keys. We were three streets over when we came across a smallish traffic jam. Ten cars had gotten tangled in a rotary, or a roundabout for those of you not from the New England area. A fair amount of shell casings of differing calibers sparkled in the sunlight.

BT and I were on high alert; Ron was still in a daze. His rifle hanging down in his arms. We came upon the scene slowly; whatever had happened here hadn't been recent. Ron turned away when he saw the legs of a woman lying on the roadway. Good thing he had because she'd been devoured from the knees up. Someone else must have come up on the scene because the zombie that had done the damage was lying on top of her, dead.

“BT?”

“Checking.” He went around to the cars, looking for something serviceable, while I made sure Ron didn't go further down the rabbit hole.

“You hanging in there?”

“We've been gone half a day, Mike. I didn't think it'd be this bad. I just assumed that if
you
could do it, so could I.”

“Naw, I never thought that.” BT stood back up, from where he'd been leaning into a lime green Honda. “Mike has a special skill set.”

“Here we go,” I said, waiting.

“Crazy, your brother is off-his-fucking-rocker crazy, and in this world, that's what it takes to survive. Why do you think he was going even more nuts in your house? Another week, I wouldn't have doubted if he took a radio, drove a few miles away, radioed like someone needed help, and then gone off to save the fictitious person.”

“That's not a bad idea.”

“See?” BT asked Ron. “Um, Mike.” BT pointed to the body of the woman.

“What?”

“Look a little harder.”

“Oh, fucking dammit.” Where the woman had potentially once birthed children was a silver set of keys. They were mucked up in varying hues of brown red and black. “Why are you looking at me? You saw them, you should get them.”

“Hell, no.”

We could sit here and argue about it, but I would lose and we would have wasted more time. I'm sure someone already had eyes on us. Stationary, and out in the open, were generally not great options together. “Fug.” Something thick and wet got stuck in my throat as I reached into the decomposing reproductive organs. It was worse than I'd even imagined it could be. I had to use force to pull the keys as if they'd been glued in place with pubic hair and ligature. I stood holding them as far from my body as possible.

“Here.” I attempted to hand them off. BT threw an old shirt over to me. I wiped the keys and myself down with enough force to rip off a few layers of skin and some metal shavings respectively. “Volkswagen.” I could finally see the top of the fob.

BT moved quickly. “Dome light still works; we might be in luck.”

“Yeah, this is luck.” I said, walking over to the bug. It was a stick. I placed the car in neutral, pumped the gas, depressed the clutch, and turned the key. A slow sluggish whirring relented to a faster power generation, and finally, German engineering kicked in and the car started. And maybe lady luck was looking out for us, at least a little; the tank was nearly full.

“Get in. I need to find some Lysol right quick.” Can't even begin to relate to you how I had to pretend my right hand was dead to me. There were so many times I wanted to rub the corner of my eye or perhaps scratch an itch, and I needed to do everything with my left. As far as my right was concerned, I was fairly certain it now housed the plague, and I would not spread the disease any further. Whatever guiding force we had for the day was still keeping watch. We hadn't gone more than three blocks from where we picked up our new ride when we found a small mom-and-pop convenience store. The kind that held on by the skin of their teeth as the Seven Elevens of the world pushed them into the dirt, much like Blockbuster had done to every other video rental place.

“You're going to stop?” Ron asked after I had already pulled up alongside the building.

“Mike you want me to come with you or….” BT nodded his head over to Ron.

“Stay here. I'll be right back.” Sure, I could have used BT to watch my back, but if anything happened in there, I, at least, had my wits about me enough to do something. Ron right now looked like he could get rolled by a gang of peace-loving Hare Krishnas. Are they still around? Whatever. I got out of the car and made sure a round was chambered and my selector switch was on fire then headed for the front door. I had not been expecting what I saw when I cautiously poked my head in. The store was pristine, as if this were a time capsule of how things had been before the zombies came.

It was possible someone had truly lost their fucking mind and was attempting to keep one small facet of his or her life as normal as possible. Unlikely, but possible. Then I got my answer in the cloying stench of death. There were zombies in here. The aisle I wanted was past the rows of cupcakes and chips, bread, automotive goods, and candy. I could see the baby blue color of a diaper package, and I knew right next to that would be a blissful box of wipes. I needed those fucking wipes bad, like a heroin addict needs a fix, like a fat kid needs a cupcake, like a skinny person needs a salad, like a white girl needs a pumpkin spice latte. I needed those fucking wipes, and I was going to risk everything for them. I stepped all the way in. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the store in a fair amount of light. Nothing moved except the lazy swirl of dust. The only thing out of place was a little bell on the floor. I imagine that had been used to notify the owner that someone had entered.

I was past the first aisle, still no blood, no bullet casings, no bullet holes, no bodies, no zombies, just rows and rows of merchandise. If I hadn't been so fixated on those damn baby cloths, I would have started shoving shit in my many cargo pockets. I had my rifle up to my shoulder and scanned every place as rapidly as I could, just kept coming up empty. I should have been feeling more relieved, but, if anything, it was starting to make me feel more apprehensive. It was like that build up in a horror movie. You know something is going to jump out—and would they just hurry up and get it over with so you don't choke on your damn popcorn in front of your date. My eyes were beginning to involuntarily water from the smell. Although in reality it's hard to make your eyes water voluntarily, unless you're an actor. More superfluous words I had not yet written down today. At some point, I'd pulled my shirt over my nose—about as effective as you think it would be. Pretty sure cotton was never supposed to filter out the stench of death.

I shoved a box of the wet wipes into my pocket. If I didn't feel like my heart was going to jump up and through my throat, I would have ripped open the package and cleaned up there. I began to back up slowly, once again doing my high-speed scanning. This time, I started randomly grabbing things, without really looking, and putting them in my pockets. I'd tried shoving a box of high-fiber cereal in, and it wouldn't fit. I carefully placed it back.